


Not Alone and Not Afraid

by aceofhearts88



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: After-life, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Death, Ghosts, Hallucinations, I am just tagging them to make sure it's complete, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, dying, kill me or not this had to be written, the relationships are not a focus of this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 00:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofhearts88/pseuds/aceofhearts88
Summary: “It is, I want peace. And peace is not something I can find in this life anymore. Thank you.” Bucky spoke quietly and clasped the hand that was offered to him by the other man, “You should go now. You do not need to stay and watch another person die. It's okay, I'm not afraid, not anymore. I'm going home.”--After the fight in the bunker in Siberia, Bucky's injuries are worse than he makes Steve think them to be, and though he lets him go to find Sam, T'Challa stays with him.





	1. It doesn't hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Last Warning: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH  
> If you don't like reading that or don't feel up for it, read on under your own responsibility. I warned you guys. Don't like it, don't read it.

Pain.

He thought he had felt it all.

He thought there couldn't be anything anymore that was able to bring him to the ground. Hydra had prodded, poked, shocked, shot and used him like a dog's chew toy. Hydra had used him like an attack dog, punished him for every little step out of line.

There had never been a day without pain.

But this, this was so much worse. 

“One more corridor.” Steve whispered at his side but Bucky barely heard him, hissing when Steve turned them right. He fought down another surge of raw nausea as the pain in his left side flared to a whole new height. It was getting worse and worse and he was panicking, because this wasn't normal, this wasn't what usually happened, this wasn't what he knew about his body.

It hurt.

It hurt bad.

Too bad.

Wheezing for another breath, he crunched up Steve's uniform in his fingers and pulled with what strength he could still conjure up. “Stop.” He cried out and Steve stopped his steps immediately, turning a little to face him, “I need to...”  
“Buck, we need to get away from here.” Steve told him, looking over his other shoulder back to where they had come from, nervous. Bucky though doubted that Stark's suit was getting up any time soon, “You can sit down on the jet, we...”

“I need to sit down right now!” Bucky snarled and then cried out. Dropping his arms from around Steve's shoulders, he doubled over and clutched at his chest, “Fuck!” Fire seemed to burn through his veins, engulfing his rips like lava. Like a knife continuously being stabbed into his rips, his shoulder, his whole chest truly. His right knee was screaming in pain, shaking and trembling and biting so hard that he couldn't even put any weight on it anymore before it threatened to buckle under him. The pain was radiating out from his knee into his foot and most of all his thigh now, telling him that something was really really wrong to have it throbbing that bad.

He was more worried about his breathing though.

Something was rattling in his lungs, he could hear it and feel it. As if they were getting heavier, breathing was getting more difficult with every step since Steve had picked him up from the ground again and Bucky was beginning to wonder if getting up had been the worst idea ever. And his head felt like it was being torn apart, he felt so sick with pain, could barely see clearly anymore.

He knew exactly what it felt like when your body was giving up.

But this was so much worse.

“Buck, hey, look at me.”

He wanted to yell and scream at Steve to leave him the fuck alone, to just give him five fucking minutes and to shut his fucking big mouth. But he didn't even have the energy for that, gritting his teeth, he rolled his head up to where he supposed Steve's face to be roughly, not that he could really see him anymore.

Putting up a fake mask.

It shouldn't be as easy as it was. Not anymore. 

But it was.

“Just...needed to catch my breath.” He said, internally congratulating himself on the casual tone despite the lightning like stabbing in his head. Just ignore, ignore, ignore, don't think about what it reminds you of, don't think about it. He was free, he was free, he would never have to go back, there would never be a chair again.

Not for him.

Not for anyone.

He let Steve pull him back up, arm back around his shoulders, he swallowed against the bile threatening to overwhelm him, fought down every twitch and every wince. He was okay, he could do this, it wasn't long to the jet, not long anymore until he could sit down. Not long until they were out of this place.

Just step by step.

One agonizing step by agonizing step.

It didn't hurt unless he let it. He was gonna be okay.

\--

He was going to die.

In all his encouraging thoughts, he had forgotten the ice, the snow and the cold.

He had forgotten about the cold.

One step out of the bunker and he couldn't do it anymore, couldn't walk another step, couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe, couldn't...

Don't think about it, he told himself, don't think about it. You're free, he reminded himself for the millionth time, you're free, they're never going to force you back into the ice.

“Hey, I'll get the jet...just wait a minute here, okay?” Steve offered to him and Bucky didn't know if he had finally seen through this farce or if he was just still focused on his good world behavior. He didn't care though, just let Steve lean him against one of the bunker doors and then watched how Steve braced himself against the wind and walked off to get the jet.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

And he let himself fall, just stopped forcing his legs to keep him upright. He crumbled to the ground, legs just buckling. He hit the ground hard, but it barely registered in his pain exploding head anymore. It burned and it throbbed, and he let himself get lost in it.

He was sick of fighting, he couldn't do it anymore. It was too much.

It finally was too much.

Found the edge and not just stepped but downright jumped over it. 

He closed his eyes, gave no thought to the safety risk anymore. What was the sense in looking out for an attack when you couldn't even defend yourself anymore anyway. He would only see it coming then, it would only hurt more. 

Hurt more than dying already did.

He didn't want to die, not necessarily, he wanted to be free, he wanted to live. He wanted a life, he wanted peace.

But he was never allowed to have peace, why should he. He had killed so many people, had ended so many lives before they could have even started. He had ripped loved ones apart. He had orphaned children. Ripped children away from their parents.

His actions caused countries to fall. Wars to begin. Regimes to rise to power. One single kill resulted in thousands of people to die. He destroyed families and homes.

His hands were dripping in blood, painted in it, and he would never be able to wash it off, there wasn't enough water in the world to ever rid him of the sight of his hands covered in blood.

Blood of people he had known.

The blood of a friend.

And as he laid there in the ice, with his heart racing in his chest and his breaths burning in his chest like acid, he thought back to the surveillance video. He had killed them, his hands had killed them.

His hands had killed Howard. His friend.

What right did he have to not want this pain? What right did he have to want to keep living? What right did he have to fight against Stark, to step out of the way of his punches?

All those people he killed, all those lives that couldn't be lived, all those dreams and hopes and wishes he had ended. And now their pain had finally come to end him, and he was so scared. Several dozen times he had not shown an ounce of emotion when he pulled the trigger, stabbed the knife or used his own hands, cold, silent, but now he was afraid.

He could hear their voices again. Could hear and feel their screams, how they pierced through his head and chased after the pain in his body.

And on top of it all.

Sergeant Barnes?

\--

It was cold, and he was shaking, crying out and whimpering with every twitch, but it hurt, everything hurt.

He couldn't move anymore and he was terrified.

His eyes refused to open, his hand refused to move, his legs were numb with pain. Screaming, burning, stabbing, throbbing. The ice was seeping into his skin but it didn't stop the pain, it still only got worse, he was choking on it, choking on pain and fear.

He didn't want it to be over, but he couldn't fight anymore. He was so tired, all he had wanted was to be alone. To be left alone in Bucharest. To be allowed to live. All he had wanted was peace. He hadn't asked for any of this to happen, he hadn't wanted to get back into Steve's life.

He knew what he had done, it hadn't been a lie what he had told Stark, he remembered everything. Every mission. Every kill. Every death. Every last word. One nightmare after the other, coming so more easily than the memories of a life that seemed so unreal, so ridiculous that he had ever had a life without this horror.

He should have died that day of the fall from the train, his story should have been over. It would have saved so many lives and protected so many people from sadness and pain. But now he didn't want to die, now where it looked like he couldn't stop it anymore, he didn't want to go like this. He wanted to pick himself up and run, he wanted to disappear again, to get away from Siberia. To get away from Steve.

He wanted to be alone, and then again he didn't.

He had never feared death, not with the way it had been so easy to die when he had been young, not with as many people as he had seen dying before he had even become a soldier. He was afraid of dying alone, and in all his life in the last decades, the fear had never been so real and terrifying and burning as in this moment.

He was alone.

And he was dying.

He could feel it. 

A rip must have pierced his lungs, he hadn't yet started up coughing blood but it was only a matter of time now, he could already feel the fluid building up if he focused enough. At least three more rips had to be broken, his abdomen felt too hard, his left shoulder was in agonizing pain and Bucky could feel it streaming right into his head. Something in his right leg was broken, his knee positively fucked up, he didn't even need to take a look at it to know that.

He was shaking too much for it to be only the cold and the psychological reasons, it had to be the blood loss by now as well, which meant there had to be at least one severely bleeding wound. His right arm, the one he still had, was throbbing from the elbow up, his face felt swollen, his jaw hurt on both sides, his eyes couldn't focus very good once he had forced them open again.

He coughed.

And the snow next to his head turned red.

So much for right guesses then.

\--

How long could Steve take to get this damn jet?

\--

He had stopped shaking, and he was so cold, as if there was no more blood in his veins, just ice, just the cold itself. Even thinking...was getting slower already. Everything was powering down. He couldn't stop it, couldn't fight against it. Even the bone shattering fear wasn't enough to get his heart racing anymore, everything slowing down.

So cold.

And he was so scared.

He had never been so scared in his entire life before. He didn't want to die alone, just please don't let him die alone. He knew he didn't deserve any peace or any forgiveness or even second chances, but he just didn't want to die alone.

Not here.

Not now. And not alone.

“Shit!”

Aw, Steve, no.

“Buck?” 

And there was that heavy weight falling right to his knees beside him and yup, grabby hands immediately going to his face and shoulders, still as predictable as ever, Rogers. Bucky already mentally prepared himself for the explosion of pain, but instead nothing came and Steve's hands never reached him.

“Do not!” Another voice spoke up and Bucky frowned, remembering the voice from the airport fight, the man in the black suit, the one Wilson had called cat king. “Moving him in the wrong way could hurt him worse still. Barnes, can you hear me?” Bucky groaned in response, let his eyes flicker open again and then grimaced up at the stranger hovering over him.

He was incredibly handsome. Warm brown eyes, soft lips, and if he ignored the deep exhaustion and the concern edged into his features, Bucky could almost dream himself away from the pain. The man behind the mask, Bucky had no doubt that even without the suit he was just as capable to kill him, just as skilled, just as incredible. 

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Not a Sergeant anymore.” Bucky groaned and then pushed himself back up, scowling when two pairs of hands went to help him up, leaning him back against the bunker door. His vision was swimming worse than before and his chest was stabbing with every breath, but the moment he became aware of blue eyes on him, he forced himself to put up a good mask again.

Steve grimaced and then dragged a hand down his face, “T'Challa found Zemo.” Ah, good gracious hell, Bucky had almost managed to forget that bastard, he flinched hard and then nearly slid sideways. T'Challa caught him. Quick and strong.

“Buck?”

“I'm fine.” He snarled but didn't brush off the king's hands, inside of him his heart was racing again, he was on his feet by pure adrenaline and stubbornness alone, no more strength. He could hear death calling already, but he wouldn't come so easy, not while Steve was still around, he wouldn't be able to let go, but it hurt. It hurt so much. Sounds rushing in his ears, pictures in his mind that were all wrong. 

“...so I think it would really be the best idea if you take King T'Challa up on his offer.”

Shit, Steve had been talking.

And he was still going.

“I will join you as fast as I can, but I really need to know what happened with Sam and the others, if they need any help in getting out of this mess. We'll meet up with you as fast as possible, I promise you, Buck.” Steve finished and Bucky tried to make sense of it, tried to find any clues to just what Steve had been talking about, but when he remained clueless, he just nodded.

What was the sense in questioning anything right now when he might be dead soon anyway?

Steve smiled upon his reaction, “That's great, really great.” And Bucky was desperately hoping that he wouldn't go for a freaking hug. He got lucky, Steve just shifted a little awkwardly on his feet and then he nodded and left, walking for a few steps and then falling into a run. Bucky had no doubt that he was terrified over the fate of the rest of his team, especially for Wilson.

Even a blind person could feel the sparks to know what was going on there.

He was really happy Steve had found good friends in this second life, that he had found someone who had stolen his heart, who made him smile. Wilson was a good man, Steve was lucky that his feelings were reciprocated, even if he didn't know it yet. They would be happy if they ever got their heads out of their asses.

“...with me? Barnes, can you hear me?”

He had got to start listening to voices.

Bucky rolled his head to the side and tried to focus on the king still keeping him upright, dying in his arms would definitely be worse than dying in Steve's, he had to get it together. T'Challa didn't deserve that, he really didn't, especially not after what...yeah what had Steve and him been talking about?

“I can hear you.” He slurred and then scrunched up his face, willing his brain to cooperate, he found T'Challa frowning deeper at him.  
“Captain Rogers told me you weren't badly injured, it seems to be wrong.” T'Challa said and Bucky would have loved to laugh out loud, if he wasn't sure that would have resulted in a complete breakdown. And not the healing crying kind. “Sergeant Barnes?”

Oh, what was the sense in still keeping up a mask.

He dropped the act, blinked and stopped hiding the pain and the exhaustion, his body slumping even further.

“Rip.” He choked out, “Pierced lung. Coughed blood. Broken rips.” T'Challa's eyes widened and he gasped, “Something...is wrong with my knee, something broken in my leg.” And suddenly words were coming easier and he couldn't stop talking, “The arm...something is really wrong with the sensors in the arm, I can feel the pain shooting up into my head. It feels like I'm being burned from the inside. I...it hurts, everywhere. I'm bleeding badly, somewhere...don't know where...”

When had they started moving?

Wow, this man was strong.

And then of course he passed out.

\--

When he came back to, they had in fact not moved anywhere really and he was sitting right back to where he had been when Steve and T'Challa had found him.

No part of him felt the cold anymore. 

He found T'Challa crouched in front him, one hand resting on Bucky's right leg, pressing down on a blood gushing wound, dark eyes looking over his body, cataloging injuries, Bucky knew looks like that. Had seen them many many times, before the war, during the war and even after it.

But never had it been this bad.

Not for him.

“It's okay.” He found himself saying, his voice strong again despite his wheezing breaths, and none of it was a good sign, T'Challa looked up. “It's alright. I know I'm dying, and it's okay.”  
“I can help you If you want, I can try to help as good as my abilities allow me.” T'Challa told him but Bucky could see in his eyes that he knew just as well that it was too much damage, that Bucky's chances were too slim.  
“And I am grateful, after everything that happened for you to offer help, but we both know it's too late. I am sorry for your father, sorry that he was used in a mad man's plan to destroy the Avengers.” Bucky got it off his chest, “No one deserved what happened. None of them, and certainly no one from the outside. He wanted to do good, he wanted to protect his people, he didn't deserve to die.”

“Neither do you.” T'Challa said and Bucky trusted himself enough still to see someone speaking the truth, he smiled, knew it came out more as a grimace. “But if this is your wish, I will not prolong your suffering.”  
“It is, I want peace. And peace is not something I can find in this life anymore. Thank you.” Bucky spoke quietly and clasped the hand that was offered to him by the other man, “You should go now. You do not need to stay and watch another person die. It's okay, I'm not afraid, not anymore. I'm going home.” He smiled because over T'Challa's shoulder he could spot two figures walking towards them through the snow.

Unclear still but their shapes sharpening with every step.

Their uniforms so familiar his heart ached with the warmth of memories.

Their smiles bright, no worry, no fear, just happy.

Peaceful.

His friends had come to take him home.

He squeezed T'Challa's hand one more time as the ghostly figures of Gabe and Monty knelt down on either side of him, Gabe on his left, Monty on his right. Just like so many many other times, sitting around campfires, running into battle, standing watch, fighting side by side.

“I'm not alone.” He spoke out, send a smile to his right where Monty mirrored it, laying a hand on Bucky's shoulder and he briefly closed his eyes when he felt the touch as if it was real, when the pain flowed away. “Maybe like this I can find peace.”  
“I wish it for you.” T'Challa's voice was already fading away in the end and when Bucky rolled his head around to look at Gabe, the sound of the wind moving over snow covered ground outside the bunker base was gone, too.

Gabe was smiling and reached up with one hand, too, placing it comfortingly on Bucky's left shoulder. And when he felt it, felt the touch of skin, felt the warmth of someone's elses palm on his shoulder for the first time in over seventy years, he sobbed in relief. He felt the tears of utter joy fall down his cheeks.

“I can feel it.” He chuckled at Gabe whose smile brightened even more, as bright as the sun, he had always been so full of light. “Your hand is warm.”  
“Just because you're too cool, Sergeant.” Gabe quipped, but Bucky didn't feel cold anymore, not cold or heavy, not weary anymore.

For the first time in so long, he didn't feel pain anymore.

Bucky was smiling, grinning really and even the tears running down his face were warming him up now.

“I thought it would hurt.” He confessed and Monty snorted so Bucky looked back at him, felt him squeeze his shoulder and then lean down to gently bring their foreheads together.  
“Of course it doesn't bloody hurt. Coming home does never hurt, now does it?” Monty whispered and Bucky's eyes slipped close upon the touch of lips against his before Monty pulled back again. When Bucky opened his eyes again, he found Dum Dum, Frenchie and Jim sitting in front of him, relaxed, leaned back onto the hold of their hands.

“I was in pain. There was always pain, there was never any moment of peace. I don't remember moments without pain. Every waking moment after the train was torture.” Bucky told them, smiled again when Gabe and Monty shifted. Gabe bringing himself right next to him, sitting down shoulder to shoulder and leg to leg, and Bucky took a deep breath upon the feeling of warm and comfort, of home and friends. Monty laid down on the ground, with his head in Bucky's lap, like so many other times out in the forests of Europe. “But now it's okay. It doesn't hurt anymore.” He admitted breathlessly, smiling into the round, the relief making him feel weightless.

He brought a hand up to gently card fingers through Monty's soft hair, and if possible he smiled even bigger when he realized it was his left one.  
“I was so afraid to die alone.” He went on, smiling down at Monty and then looking over to Gabe again who leaned his head against Bucky's. “But I'm not. I'm not alone anymore.”  
“Course not.” A new voice spoke up, dark haired sitting down on his right next to where Monty was lying, a body in a grease covered shirt leaning back against his side with his back, throwing his head back to rest upon Bucky's right shoulder. “Didn't think we'd let you end your journey alone, now did you, Sarge?”

“I killed you, Howard.” Bucky swallowed around the grief in his chest, Jaques and Jimmy curled a hand around his no longer aching ankles.  
“I don't blame you, Brooklyn, and you shouldn't either. Not for something you had no control over.” Howard told him and Bucky could feel him relax next to him when he breathed out a long deep sigh.

“Is it gonna be long still?” He wanted to know and looked over to Dum Dum, gentle eyes looked at him with a smile from under the bowler hat.   
“Just close your eyes, Bucky, it's like falling asleep.” Dum Dum answered, and Bucky felt Gabe curl his fingers through those of his left hand, and Monty grabbing his right hand. Dum Dum laid his hand on his no longer bleeding knee.

So Bucky looked down into Monty's eyes, gave him one more smile, “I missed you so much. I thought I would never get to see you again but I won't leave you again. Not again.”  
“I know. And I won't leave you either.” Monty smiled back at him, bringing Bucky's hand up to press a kiss to the back of it and Bucky closed his eyes.


	2. I missed you

Death was peace.

It truly was like coming home.

No more pain, no more sadness, just relief and happiness.

He went looking sometimes, but never long and never much. 

Not because it hurt, or because it was too sad, but he had made peace with life, he had come home and it wasn't fair to hold onto the living when you had so many friends to be with you now.

But sometimes he did go down to watch, and when he did, he couldn't help but be annoying.

Whether or not it actually influenced something or someone.

\--

“Forget-Me-Not? Seriously? That has to be about the most insensitive flower on earth to be planted on my grave. Steve, take those out!” He sneered as he sat on the grass next to his graveside in Bucharest, Wilson had proposed that when Brooklyn would have been too dangerous, the too open choice.

Bucky had known the guy was not only great but also the greatest.

“Bucky!” Monty hissed at him in indignation, “He is still grieving, and blue was your favorite color. Leave the guy alone.” He argued, still standing behind Bucky's white gravestone that didn't hold his name but a Slavic version of it, he had the Widow to thank for that he supposed. To thank that his body would now have peace in death, too.

“No, Monty, I want at least some decent flowers. This is preposterous! Steve! Take those out!” He spoke louder, leaning forward to get closer to where Steve was still planting flowers, smiling again even though it was still framed with sadness. He looked away though when he heard footsteps on the gravel path, spotting Wilson coming up with the refilled watering can. “Oh, thank the heavens, Wilson, you're back. Make him rethink his choices. I hate the flowers!”

“The only one being insensitive right now is you!” Monty huffed with a loud sigh and then grabbed Bucky's arm, pulling him up again, “And we're gonna leave now.”

\--

“I can't do this anymore.”

“Then don't do it.” Bucky answered the question that wasn't there, with his arms crossed behind his head where he lay next to the big blond idiot in the grass outside the small house in New Orleans, sun shining down on them from a beautiful cloudless sky.   
“I'm just so tired.” Steve spoke into the sky next to him, blissfully unaware that he actually had someone listening in.

“Despite your beliefs, there are negations out there, buddy. You don't want to be Cap anymore, then just say so. Say no, Steve, not that difficult.” Bucky hummed and closed his eyes, felt the sun on his skin, “You had your fight, you saved the world. If you wanna be done, then be done.”  
“So tired, but I can't let any more people down.” Steve sighed and Bucky rolled his eyes hard enough to actually risk getting them stuck.

“One thing I am for sure never going to miss, your fucking dramatics, Rogers. Stop being so stupid. You helped, let someone else take over now. You are allowed to be happy, too.” Bucky pointed out, opening his eyes again and rolling his head to the side, watching Steve's profiles, “I would punch you if I could. You have a good life, Steve, don't ruin it by going back into the fight. With Sam, you do not only have a perfect man at your side but also someone who couldn't be better suited to take over. Talk to him, no one better out there who deserves the shield and who will do so much good with it.”

\--

“Name the kid after me and I will end you!” He threatened easily as he leaned back against the wall in the small hospital room where Sam was cradling the little bundle of joy in his arms while Steve was standing right next to him. Smiling so goofy and stupidly bright. “I swear by all things holy, if he names the kid James, I am so going to come for his ass, ghost or not. Watch me!”

“Did someone in life ever tell you that your dramatics are just as bad as Rogers?” The sandy blond man mirroring his position across the room from him wanted to know and Bucky rolled his eyes at him.  
“Contrary to him, I am able to shut my big mouth sometimes. People didn't notice what was really going on in my head.” Bucky explained and then looked back over to both husbands with their newborn son.

“Bucky, be nice.” Gabe admonished from his right and elbowed him hard, Bucky snorted but it all melted away when Sam shifted his arms and gave him a better view of the small face, that little puckered mouth, those big beautiful eyes.  
“He's perfect.” He whispered, smiling now, glancing over to Steve to once more see how hopelessly gone he was on his son already.

“Riley James.” Sam spoke up then, quietly, in so much awe, “Two strong names for a strong perfect little boy. May they protect you wherever you go and watch over you as you one day hopefully make friends as good as we had in them.”

“Watch me, he said, gonna come for your ass, he said.” Gabe chuckled and Bucky boxed at him through the tears of joy running down his face.

“Fuck off, Gabe.”

\--

He watched on.

How Steve and Sam made a life for themselves and their beautiful little boy.

How Sam picked up the shield and suited up as the world needed a Captain America as well.

How Steve was finally at peace in a beautiful house, with his drawings and sketches, with a little boy who never gave him even a second of silence to be really worried when Sam was gone.

\--

He watched how the Avengers became a true team again, all new players, but people who trusted each other now, who knew each other's strengths and weaknesses.

He was there watching as Sam fell one time, as he hit the ground hard and laid there winded for a long moment. In the middle of all this chaos, all this fighting, his eyes staring up at the sky as he fought to get air back in his lungs.

But even when Rhodes landed next to him, when the Witch threw herself to her knees at Sam's other side, Bucky knew it would be okay before Sam was already pulling himself up again. Grimacing and clearly hurt but okay.

It wasn't his time.

Because Riley wasn't there to take him home.

Not yet.

Not for long.

“Get your ass up, Wilson. Don't get lazy. Got a boy to come home to.”

\--

Steve grew old.

And Bucky watched it with amusement.

“Could you picture me with gray hair?” He asked, sitting cross-legged on the closed toilet seat in the master bathroom in the Rogers-Wilson household. Steve standing in front of the mirror, thumbing at the white in his hair. Bucky shuddered, “God, just imagine, ugly gray in this perfect hair. Probably a good thing I died young. Well...figuratively speaking. Urgh, gray hair.”

“DAD!” A voice yelled from outside the door and Steve huffed, “Hurry up! Or we'll be late to your own grandson's wedding!”  
“In a minute!” Steve yelled back and then combed his hair to the side, grabbing the black jacket from the hanger and putting it on, “160 and they still chase you around like you're twenty.”

“You don't look a day older than seventy five, buddy.” Bucky laughed and followed Steve out of the bathroom, down the stairs to where Sam was leaning against the open front door. Wearing a suit as well, looking so damn happy and smiling so bright still.

“Were we this annoying when Riley got married?” Steve grumbled and Sam snorted, reaching up to fuss over his husband's tie.  
“I think I was too busy worrying over the New Avengers blowing up New York on accident in my absence to really have any energy left to be annoying.” Sam laughed and pulled Steve down for a kiss, “Come on, let's go. My grandson is getting married today, I need to rub it in Riley's face how old he is now.”

\--

When it happened, they went together.

Peaceful. In their sleep.

Old and happy. After living a long and happy life together.

And Bucky chose not to be there, because he knew that Steve didn't need him. Hadn't needed him in a long time.

\--

The ocean was throwing soft waves against the beach, a light breeze bringing the taste of salt in the air with it. The sun was bright and warm, and Bucky let it warm his skin, head thrown back where he was sitting barefoot in the sand, waves reaching up to his toes sometimes.

And he smiled as he heard the soft steps in the sand approaching him from behind.

“I thought you'd be there.” Steve chose to begin with as he sank down into the sand on Bucky's right, “Thought I'd see you there with me.”  
“You weren't alone.” Bucky answered him, looking out over the endless ocean still, “You had Sam. Riley was there with you, holding onto your hand. You had your family to be there with you, you didn't need me to take the fear away.”

“Were you alone?” Steve wanted to know and Bucky felt blue eyes on himself, “I know that T'Challa was there, but...were you afraid?”  
“No.” Bucky smiled and turned to smile at Steve, “I wasn't alone and I wasn't afraid. I had my friends with me to take me home.” And Steve smiled at him, too, all skinny five feet nothing of him, “I missed you, pal.”

“I missed you, too.” Steve told him and laughed when Bucky threw an arm around his shoulders, “Do you wanna ride the Cyclone again?”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

And laughing they scrambled to their feet and vanished into the crowd on Coney Island.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> be mad at me if you want but something an idea strikes  
> this idea has been running around in my head for a while now and I finally find the right motivation to write it all down


End file.
